Agent of Chaos
by NinjaCookiesFTW
Summary: When Joker met Harley. The story "Mad Love" mixed with the events after the dark Knight
1. Meet Mistah J

Click. Click. Click. Click.

The rhythmic pattern of my high heels was the first thing to enter my ears, but it was the last thing on my mind. This job, everyone had warned me not to take it. Warned me not to even consider. And when I told them I had, they said their goodbyes as if they wouldn't see me again. It was just a job. I'm a shrink. That's what I do. I deal with those who are mentally tormented, abused, and even deranged. But that's all they are. Crazies, loons, people whose mind wheels don't click the way they should. But most of them are harmless. So when I got the call from Commissioner Gordon, I figured, hey, what's the worst it could be? But my out of control imagination is starting to run hog wild on me as the filth of Arkham howl at me from behind their reinforced Plexiglas cells.

"Good luck," they shout. "How many body bags you think she'll come out in? I'm bettin' at least three." The mindless chatter and maniacal laughter sprays at me from every direction, like slaphappy children given a high-powered hose and a decently sized target. But I'm used to this. I spend every day listening to this. What I'm not used to is the whispers from the high-enders. The owner of this place, the medical personnel, even one small utterance from the Commissioner himself. "How'd you get her to take the job?" they say. "It's a good thing she's from out of town." I could go on and on.

Who is this guy anyway? How dangerous could he possibly be? And if he really is so dangerous, why wasn't anyone stopping me? Questions, questions, questions. I'm a solver. I solve people's problems. And when I can't solve them, I prescribe something that can.

"Hey sweetheart, what d'you say you slip on in here and make a lonely man happy. Trust me, at least you'll live," howled one of the inmates, pressing himself against his glass door and licking it.

I rolled my eyes, and didn't even turn to look at him. Never give them satisfaction. First rule of my line of work.

"Hello. I suppose you're Dr. Quinszel?" an enormous guard stated monotonously.

I had been so entranced in trying to make it down the long, dark and dreary stone hallway that I hadn't realized I'd reached the end.

"Yes. Yes sir, I am," I said, pushing my long blonde hair over my shoulder, and holding a hand out to shake his. He merely grunted in response, and turned to a second guard, who nodded.

"Clear to open solitary confinement cell 3?" the large man yelled past me, causing me to jump, and my clipboard of papers to rattle to the ground.

He raised an eyebrow at me, as if to say "They really hired you?"

"Clear!" came a yell from the other end of the hall, the one I'd entered through.

I looked to see what he meant, and saw that they had closed and latched the door on that end, and two more large men were now blocking it with their massive figures. Well, it thought as I gathered up my clipboard. At least the place is secure.

The two men before me turned and heaved a giant iron bolt from across the door and heaved it open. From the looks of it, it was at least three inches thick. Like I said… secure. But instead of walking into what I thought would be my new patient's cell, I was ushered into a smaller room, whose purpose I was unsure of. I turned questioningly toward the two men, who I now realized hadn't followed me into the room. One of them handed me an identification card.

"You'll need this to get in," his booming voice said, and he pointed to a card reader to the right of the door ahead of me.

"Aren't you," I began to ask, pointing toward the door.

"With all do respect ma'am, I don't have a death wish," he said, and began fumbling around in his leather-patented pockets. "And give this entire dose to him before you start your... uh, work." He was handing me a syringe filled with some kind of tawny-tinted liquid.

"What…" I began to ask as I took it from him and looked at it. Two milligrams. That's a lot of whatever this is.

"Sedation. I kinda like you. I want you to live," he said, and heaved the door closed in my face, leaving me alone in the tiny, probably three foot by three foot room.

"Alrighty then," I replied to no one in particular, and turned toward the door. I hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and slipped the key card through the reader, and a hydraulic hiss gave way to a somewhat dark room, with a single figure in the center. I held my head high and entered.

Directly to my right was a light switch, which I confidently flicked upward. I turned to examine my patient and let my eyes adjust to the brighter light.

The man was in a full body straight jacket, which was reinforced with steel chains. These steel chains led from about six points on his body to the surrounding walls, where they were welded to steel plates which were protruding from the white padding that covered every inch of wall surface. It was clear by his limp legs that those chains were the only things holding him in place. The man's head was bowed, his hair was unkempt and falling into his face. His breathing was irregular; it sounded more like wheezing to me.

"Hello. My name is Harley Quinzel, and by court order of Gotham PD, I am your new shrink.

He slowly started to look up, his green-tinted hair beginning to fall away from his face, and something new crawled through my body. As the light reached his face, I could see pale white skin, paler than the moon. No, no, now that I look, it's white face paint. And he had black paint untidily smeared around his almond shaped auburn eyes. He had blood red paint smeared across his lips in a smile that portrayed everything but happiness. The paint that led up his cheeks covered what looked like terrible scars, but I'd have to get closer to tell. As I studied him, his lips began to spread into a true grin, and knives of ice stabbed at my spine.

Animals have primal instincts, inborn fears that tell them what to run away from, what to fear. If I was any animal, I'd be long gone by now.

As I tried to convey that I was a confident businesswoman, he did something that made my insides turn and lurch, and my mind scream for sanctuary from the fear; he licked his lips and started to giggle. It was pure lunacy, a malice that sent my stomach acid scrambling for my esophagus. And as I stared back at him, it escalated in a crescendo to a purely psychotic and mind-shattering laughter.

Rule number two; never let them know you're scared.


	2. Wanna Know How I Got These Scars?

The Joker's maniacal laughter filled the room, and bounced off of every possible surface. My mind would not cooperate as I tried to compose myself and continue with my preliminary. I needed the basics: name, age, and things of that nature. If the patient thinks you know a lot about them, they're more willing to cooperate. Of course, I had been warned that they had found nothing of the sort when they detained him the first time. According to the government archives, he was the invisible man. In all technicalities, he didn't even exist. He was the no-name. But I was prepared to change that. He couldn't be that difficult. Or so I thought at the time.

"And what, per say, is so amusing?" I said, my voice sounding much more confidant than it was.

He didn't respond, only reduced his laughter to a half-hearted giggle, and stared right back at me.

"Harleen Quinzel," he said in a sing-song voice, and the way he said it made butterflies flutter in my stomach. "Harleen Quinn, Harley Quinn," he said, arranging my name into a rhyme of harlequin, still singing the words.

"Ah ha," I said flatly, not amused in the least. "Just so you know, I have no sense of humor, so you're silly mind tricks wont work on me."

"Oh really?" he said, the smile wiping off his face, and a deeper, more monotonous tone rising. "You know, I've come to learn that every person can be torn apart, piece by piece. I just have to find the weakest seam, and rriiiipppp," he said, breaking into laughter again.

"I'm leather. I have no seams," I said, and pulled up the small metal chair from the corner of the room.

"I'm going to start out simple," I said, looking down at my blank paper on the clipboard. "And I know you aren't going to tell me your real name, so I'll play your little game. For Now."

I knew these types of people. They were hard to reach. It was like reaching into a sock drawer and trying to pull out a specific color without looking. Chances are, you wouldn't get it. So, I'd play his mind games, call him Joker, and hopefully he'd let me in.

"So, why the Joker? I mean, there certainly are more enticing cards in the deck," I said, just trying to get a hold of him, see what I was dealing with.

"Well, you see the joker card is usually omitted in most card games; tossed aside, disregarded. It's never taken seriously. So, if you become a symbol, and an under examined one at that, then you allow yourself to become invisible. Fly under the radar, in a sense," he replied, seeming to enjoy himself.

Like the Batman, I thought.

"But life isn't a game, Joker," I replied. "You can't just choose which pawns live and which ones die. Nobody has that kind of power."

"And why not, you think?" he said. I said nothing. I had no answer.

"It's because people don't trust," he said. "No matter how well you think you know someone, you will never trust them, and they will never trust you. I have proven it so many times. Don't you watch the news? People will betray those they're closest to in order to save their own hide."

I wrote down a few things, like his lack of trust in humanity. That might prove something about his personality.

"Not necessarily," I retorted. "Those people on those ferries didn't blow each other up. Someone had to have trusted that the other one wouldn't do it."

"Oh no, no, no. You're talking about guilt, now, doll face. Those people wanted to do it, but couldn't. Nobody wants to be responsible for that kind of carnage," he said, and the nickname he used on me made me shiver.

"Except, of course, for you," I said, and waited to see any kind of reaction in his face, eyes, anything. Nothing.

"Exactly," he said, and giggled slightly.

"It isn't funny. You can't just play with people's chances for happiness. We only get one shot at this," I said, becoming perturbed.

"I do whatever I want to. I have no restrictions, no limits. No rules. And you know what, It's great," he said, putting emphasis on the word 'rules.'

"Uh huh. You're happy in here, tied up like an animal?" I said, studying his face.

"I'm a man of simple tastes," he began, sounding as if he were about to enter a lengthy explanation. "Just because I don't fit in with this town's lazy, laid-back lifestyle, doesn't mean I'm not a happy guy. Just because I enjoy guns, bombs, gasoline, and flammable materials rather than vitamin fortified breakfast cereals doesn't make me as mundane as the rest of humanity. It just makes me more interesting," he finished with a smile.

I decided to let that topic go as I wrote down a few more things.

"And what about the scars?" I said gently, wondering if it was a touchy subject.

"You wanna know how I got 'em?" he said, tilting his head to the side like a child.

"Sure," I said, poising my pencil above my paper. I had a giant hunch the scars were a huge factor in his psychological issues.

"Well, my mother was one of those people who could never have enough money. My father left her when I was real young, and she despised the expenses. So, she devises a plan to get all my insurance money. But you know what you gotta do to collect someone's insurance?" he asked, seeming happy about the somber story he was sharing with me.

I nodded, but didn't speak.

"So, one day, Mommy decides to tie me up in the kitchen, and then realizes she can collect more if she destroys the house too. So you know what my oh-so-loving mother does? She puts a nice little grenade in my mouth, and sews my lips shut. If there's nothing left of me, there's no suspicion of murder, and she gets everything, y'see? So she leaves me there, and waits outside to report the 'accident,'" he said, and licked his lips.

I wrote that down as well. Sometimes my patients have little things that clue me in on what the hell's going on in their heads. Some twitch, some scratch at their skin, I could go on.

"Well, I'm a fighter, as you've probably figured out by now, so I hobble on over to the kitchen knives, and grab the big one," he said, and smiled when he saw me shudder.

"But of course my hands are bound, so my slicing skills aren't quite up to par," he said, smiling and dragging out the last 'r.'

I shuddered again, which caused him to laugh.

"So I stumble outside, carrying the pretty little blood-soaked bomb, and…" he paused, and I looked up from my paper.

He smiled and feigned the sound of an explosion, "pow."

My hand shook, so I decided not to write anything at the moment. But for some reason, I didn't think that was really the story behind it.

So, I finished up, and made a mental note to try a new technique when next we met. This was going to be a tricky one.


	3. Intentions

It only took a few days of asking around to confirm my suspicions. The story Joker had told about his scars had been just that; a story. Completely fabricated. I also learned of two other stories he'd told about them. While most people would have been frustrated at this, I was excited. I just kept learning more about him, and that's exactly what I needed at this point. He was still the dark side of the moon to me now, but I was inching closer to changing that.

I had patients who did this sort of thing. They are extremely calculating, and they instantly analyze a person. Then, with the information they gather from their first impressions, they make up stories that will spark the interest of the victim; spark some sympathy. I suppose he figured I'm a psychiatrist, someone people count on, put their trust in. So he made up the story about his mother, someone that you're also supposed to be able to trust. Smooth. Very smooth. But I was going to get to the bottom of this, even if it killed me.

"You have got to be out of your goddamn mind!" Gordon yelled.

"I'm not going to make any headway unless he feels like he can trust me. He's not going to if he's chained up like some sort of animal!" I yelled back.

Jim Gordon and I were standing in his office at the front of Arkham. Granted, he was the Commissioner of Police, and he really had no business at an asylum, but most of Gotham's worst criminals were being held here. So naturally, he kept one eye on it at all times.

"He's the JOKER!" Gordon yelled back. "He IS an animal! He'll never trust anyone unless they're holding a 45!"

"Just let me try it," I said, lowering my voice. Yelling with the Commissioner of Gotham PD probably wasn't going to get me anywhere. "Keep an eye on the cameras, if he even starts to try anything, then you can have it your way."

Gordon paced, rubbing his temples. "Do you have any idea how long it took to catch this guy?" he asked, obviously stressed. "How many good men died in the process? I'm not about to loose him again."

"And you won't," I said gently. "There's three doors between him and freedom. How's he gunna get out anyway?"

Gordon scoffed. "Convince you to do it," he replied.

"Oh please. I'm a psychiatrist, not a criminal mastermind. I'm not about to fall for some escape con."

"He's done it before," Gordon said, sighing. "He forced a perfectly rational, and armed mind you, officer to let him out the first time we got him."

"I understand that," I said calmly. "But I'm just a shrink. I knew what I was signing up for when I took this job. So you have no obligation to rescue me if he tries something."

"Yes, yes I do. I'm not like him. I can't stand by and watch another human being brutally murdered," Gordon said, and then sighed again, obviously thinking about it.

I held my breath.

"Alright, but only for half an hour," he said, and my inner child frolicked in victory. Of course outwardly, I remained strictly professional.

"Thank you Commissioner Gordon," I said, and he handed me a large key, which he procured from his desk drawer. "And right before you leave, I want you to sedate him so we can get him back into those chains without incident."

"Yes sir," I said, and exited.

Over the course of the last few days, I had had time to think of several ways to make some kind of dent in Joker's shell. First, I would just try talking to him, face to face, no restraints. I knew he wouldn't trust me, but hopefully he would start to allow me to talk to him. Really talk to him. Then, if I still wasn't getting through, I was prepared to use a hypnotist. I was planning on using one anyway, since his conscious mind wouldn't tell me the truth. But I might use it sooner depending on how today went.

I approached the entrance to the cell hall, where I routinely stopped to be searched. One of the officers took my briefcase and searched it while the other ran a handheld metal detector over my entire body. He almost made me remove my stud earrings, but he decided against it after much debating. Seriously, what was the Joker going to do, impale me on my half a centimeter studs? I highly doubt it, but hey, I wouldn't be surprised if he did.

Once inside the cellblock, I made my way down the long corridor. I hardly noticed the whooping and hollering from the other inmates since my mind was 100% focused on the task ahead of me. Sometimes I felt that it was consuming my life. I had only just met this man, but I had made it my newest goal to figure him out. He was intoxicating, and in more ways than one, as I would eventually find out.

Once inside his cell, I took a deep breath. I really had no idea how this was going to turn out. I couldn't expect anything from him. When I expected one thing, he gave me the opposite. So any feelings about how this could turn out were really pointless.

So, for lack of better phrasing, I went for it balls first. I approached him, almost holding my breath. I think he knew what I was about to do because an evil, terrifying grin graced his scarred face. I ignored it completely, and took the key from the pocket of my knee length black skirt.

"Oh, pretty," he said, his smile widening. "D'you have to pry that from the Commissioner's cold, dead fingers?"

"No, like most mortals, he can be persuaded with a calm discussion," I said, and Joker laughed. But it wasn't his same maniacal laughter. It was true amusement, and my insides flipped. And somehow, in a good way.

I slipped the key into the lock of each chain, one by one, my hands surprisingly steady. Something inside me told me he wouldn't hurt me. Of course, like I said, if I expect one thing, he delivers on the other.

But, as I removed the last chain and it fell to the ground with a clink, he stood there and calmly took a deep breath. I walked around him and unhooked the straightjacket, so his arms were now free, and he let them drop to his sides. He simply stood, and slowly glanced over his shoulder at me, and again, the butterflies in my stomach danced in joy. It confused me, but something inside me, something I wouldn't come to accept until much later, knew the feeling very well, and yearned to accept it.

"Better?" I asked, and smiled to mask my nerves and, unbeknownst to him, other feelings.

"For me, yes," he said, and before I could inquire as to what he meant, his extremely strong grip was around my neck and forcing me against the nearest wall.

Within seconds, four guards with guns drawn had burst through the door, followed by Commissioner Gordon.

"No, don't!" I said, struggling to speak around his painful grasp. They stopped, but didn't lower their weapons.

"Oh don't tell them that, you'll spoil all the fun," Joker said, staring at the foremost guard.

I looked back at the Joker, who drew his gaze from the guards back to me, eyes absent of any kind of fear. I couldn't just plead with him, he would only be amused by it. I had to play this his way.

"Go ahead. Nothing's stopping you," I said quietly, staring straight into his eyes. It was different this time, though. That first time I had seen his endless eyes, I had been absolutely petrified. Now I was captivated. I couldn't look away, and he never broke my gaze. "All you have to do is squeeze," I said, my voice sounding like I wanted him to do it.

He stared back at me for a moment, seeming confused, and then he started to laugh. It was a mixture of his two laughs; he was actually amused, but it was probably meant to frighten the guards. And it did, as I observed. Gordon flinched, like he had heard nails on a chalkboard, and all four guards took a step back.

And, as I expected he might, the Joker released me and took a step back. However, he never stopped staring into my eyes, and I, too, couldn't look away.

"Ms. Quinzel, I really don't think…" Gordon started to say.

"It's okay, really. We just had to get the alpha dog thing out of the way," I said, grinning, and the Joker returned the gesture, pleased at his new title.

Gordon sighed, obviously not happy.

"I know what I said," I stated, remembering I had promised Jim that if the Joker tried anything, we'd restrain him again immediately. But I truly believed that we'd be okay now.

Gordon thought for a moment, giving the Joker and myself time to agree on this silently. He behaves (somewhat), and he doesn't get put back into those chains. I'm sure he wouldn't care in the least, since he didn't care about anything, but it was something he'd probably like to avoid.

"Fine," Gordon said curtly, and beckoned the guards to exit with him.

I smiled, finally breaking eye contact with the Joker and turning my head to watch the men exit. I took a deep breath and removed my thin-rimmed glasses so I could rub my eyes. Yet when I opened them, the Joker was right in front of me, mere inches away. I would have jumped if I hadn't somehow known he'd be there. He squinted, studying me, and then began to slowly walk a circle around me, sizing me up. I should have felt uncomfortable, but I didn't. Any other person would have felt like prey being thoroughly examined by the predator, but I didn't. I felt like his equal, being judged on my qualifications to be regarded as such.

"Hm," he said, and walked away from me to slump against the far wall, and slide down it to a sitting position. "I like you."

"I'm glad," I said, and brought my clipboard to bear. "Where shall we start today?"


	4. The Pain of A Knife

After a few weeks of twice-a-week sessions with the Joker, I was starting to understand him. But, unbeknownst to me, he had already figured me out completely. He crawled right under my skin, made me think about him round the clock. I was obsessed in him; his personality, all his little querks. The licking the lips, the laughing at everything that isn't funny. All of it. I just wanted to be around him twenty-four seven. He made me feel right, somehow. Like I was among friends. Which I shouldn't have felt, since he was the patient, I was the doctor.

But after these few weeks, I have a pretty firm diagnosis; he's a misanthropic anarchist with a serious sweet tooth for the betrayal of humankind. Oh, and he's a masochist. Major masochist. But is he crazy? I don't think so. He's smart. Really smart, too smart. He analyzes every inch of a person, stripping them down in mere seconds. He sees one's weaknesses, their faults, and instantly uses them to his own benefit. And what was so captivating about him was that I was no closer to figuring out why than the first day I laid eyes on him. That's the fun part. He keeps me guessing. Somehow… I like it.

In one way or another, I had convinced Gordon to discontinue restraining the Joker with those god awful chains. Don't ask me how I did it, I don't even know. What I do know is, there was much debating, yelling, and several cups of bad coffee involved. But, I had done it, and every session, I would walk in, and there he would be, comfortably seated against one of the walls, mindlessly doing something. Sometimes he was picking at his fingers, sometimes he was staring at the ceiling very intently, and other times he would resemble a man deep in sleep, then he would surprise me by striking up a conversation, eyes still shut. He was never caught off guard when I came. And sometime within the passing weeks, he had started to call me Harley. Apparently, I hadn't noticed or cared.

Another thing I realized about him was that this mask, this hard shell he wore was virtually impenetrable. He was engulfed in the Joker, and seemed to have lost whoever was there before. But again, I had experience with these kind of people. They can always be broken. You just have to find the right tool. For some, it was a sound, a sight, a smell. It happens in cases where the patient experienced something terribly traumatic, and becomes ignorant of everything the memory entails. Everything, of course, except for that one thing. I just had to figure out what. I knew it had to be related to the scars. Nobody endures something that does that to a person, and escapes mentally unscathed. And since he just kept making up stories, I brought the hypnotist.

His name was Daniel Pax. Again, I have no idea how I got someone who had seen the news reports on the joker during his 'reign of terror' to take the job. I guess he was just as curious as I had been. He was a somewhat handsome man, tall, brunette, very professional. He wore a dark gray suit, usually with a colorful tie. Today's was a deep forest green with black stripes on it. He said it was fun but still professional. I was just worried the Joker would choke him with it.

"And um, don't fall for his mind games," I said as we stood in between the two doors leading to Joker's cell. "He'll play with your head, convince you into conclusions that you don't even agree with."

"Don't worry about me," he said, straightening up his tie. "With any luck, he'll be hypnotized for the duration of my stay anyway."

That's what I'm worried about, I thought.

"Oh, and one more thing," I said, pausing with my card key just above the reader. "Once you get him… whatever-ed, the first thing I wanna know about is the scars. He's made up stories thus far, and I want to hear the truth. Then we'll move on."

Pax nodded, and I swiped the card through. The door clicked and hissed, and slowly creaked open. The Joker was at the complete opposite side of the room, leaning against the padded wall, arms crossed across his chest. His head was bowed, and if I hadn't spent the last few weeks studying him, the position might have been frightening. It spoke countless emotions; power, supremacy, bloodlust. I chanced a wayward glance at Pax, and if he was at all disheartened, he masked it perfectly. His face never changed as Joker looked up, licked his lower lip, and grinned.

"My name is Daniel Pax. Ms, er… Dr. Quinzel has asked for my assistance. I am a hypnotist," he said confidently.

"Well, you can call me the Joker," Joker replied, still grinning one of his evil grins. I knew what he was doing. He was testing Pax, like a dog tests a fence for weak spots; seeing if he could be intimidated. So far it wasn't working.

"Pleased to meet you," Daniel's strong, booming voice said.

"No," Joker said, pausing. "No, you're not."

"Well, we'll just see about that, then, wont we?" Daniel replied, and turned to smile at me. I didn't return the gesture. Perhaps I had misguided him. I told him not to fall for Joker's mind games, not return them ten fold. If you do that, he'll work up a batch of Joker's finest whoop ass. And I was starting to get an eerie feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Daniel then turned to me and put his hand on my arm, gently turning my back on the Joker so he could talk, supposedly privately, with me.

"Now, I have had some patients turn violent when I do this, so just be aware," he said in hushed tones.

"What d'you mean 'violent,'" I asked. I wasn't terribly familiar with hypnotics; all I knew was that the patient was in a somewhat conscious, sleep-like state. A trance of sorts.

"Well, some people's resistance to hypnosis can vary. If the topic or memory we talk about is sensitive, their mind may try to… protect it. Which usually results in physical, sometimes violent action. But don't worry, if he does, he'll target me, since I'm the one performing the questioning."

I sighed, the pit in my stomach crawling up my throat. Something told me this was a bad idea.

"Whatcha talkin' about?" Joker's voice suddenly exploded from right behind us, and both of us jumped. My clipboard also flew out of my grasp as my hands spasmed from the fright. The sound of it hitting the ground echoed around the room as Daniel and I turned to face the Joker.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I scare you?" he said and started to laugh hysterically. "You people really gotta learn to lighten up," he said, waving a finger at us.

I sighed, rolled my eyes, and looked back at Daniel. "Shall we?"

A few minutes later, we were all seated at the opposite end of the room, Joker leaning against the wall, Pax and I facing him. The Joker seemed willing to cooperate, but that knot in my throat kept screaming at me that something was awry.

Joker's laidback manner was creeping me out, bigtime. He was leaned against the wall, eyes comfortably closed, fingers intertwined in his lap. Daniel finally proved he was mortal by sighing somewhat uncomfortably, and a grin graced Joker's face.

Daniel didn't take to long to get Joker into a hypnotic state. He went through the traditional technique, counting from one to five, each number including a step that led to the trance. I didn't pay attention to that, however. I was watching the Joker. And he never changed. He remained leaning against the wall, eyes closed, hands crossed. But what I did notice was his breathing relaxed, and so did he. Did it work? I couldn't tell.

I turned to Daniel, eyebrows raised questioningly. He seemed almost as confused as me, but tried to mask it. He didn't know what to do at the moment. So, I took initiative. I crawled out of the chair, which Daniel had gentlemanly given to me earlier, and approached the Joker. Out of impulse, I reached up, but paused. I just realized I had never touched him. Yeah, he'd nearly crushed my windpipe, but I had never even come close enough to do anything of the sort. I tilted my head, and gently ran my thumb over his scar, my other fingers grazing his jaw line. They truly were gruesome; deep lesions in the skin that I was sure had to have been excruciatingly painful. And they hadn't been well taken care of either, otherwise the scars wouldn't have been so ghastly.

No sooner had I done this than his hand whipped up, so fast I couldn't see it, and grabbed my wrist. It was the same strong grip he'd had before, but this time he wasn't refraining. I swore my wrist might snap at any moment. His eyes remained closed, and he didn't move any other part of his body except that one arm.

"Ow, ow," I said, and twisted in any way to get his grip to loosen.

"No touching," he said, grinned, eyes still closed. He released my wrist, and returned it to intertwine with his other. I looked back at Daniel, who nodded, and I returned to my chair.

"Can you hear me alright?" Daniel said quietly.

"Why, Mr. Pax you truly are a visionary. I'm in a state of hypnosis, not deaf," Joker said, licking his lips, eyes closed.

Daniel smiled sheepishly, and looked down for a moment. I almost laughed.

"Okay," Daniel started again. "Let's talk about the scars. Tell me how you got them. Take your time."

Joker took a deep breath and licked his lips again. Daniel turned to me and mouthed 'does he do that a lot?' I nodded. He wrote it down.

"You and Harley can ask me that as much as you want, and you wont ever get what you want," Joker said, in all seriousness. "But if you'd like to hear a story, I've got a nice one brewing about being mugged..."

Daniel looked surprised; like the Joker shouldn't have been aware that he was hypnotized. Like he should have just answered the question without reserve.

"Is he not supposed to know?" I asked quietly.

"Not usually," Daniel replied, writing ferociously on a piece of notebook paper. "But it's happened before. In hyperactive minds, most of the time."

Not a huge surprise. I've already said I knew the Joker was incredibly intelligent. So the fact that his mind was always working, always on; it didn't surprise me.

"Okay then," Daniel said, back to speaking professionally. "How about a few questions? You have to answer honestly."

The Joker grinned wide, but never agreed.

"So, was it someone else who did that to you, or yourself?" Daniel asked, using the whole twenty-questions approach.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he replied, seeming like he wasn't hypnotized at all.

Daniel sighed, obviously frustrated.

"Okay, lets say, hypothetically, someone else did it to you," Daniel said, thinking. "Was it someone you trusted? Someone you loved?"

Joker didn't reply this time, only sat stark still. He seemed to be waiting for Daniel to continue his hypothetical plotline.

"It was a knife, I presume?" Daniel said, standing and beginning to pace. "That's why you use knives most of the time instead of guns. Because you know what it's like," Daniel paused to look at the Joker's reaction, as did I. I didn't like what I saw.

The Joker's hands were no longer comfortably intertwined; they were gripping each other so hard his knuckles were turning white. And he was grinding his teeth.

Daniel smiled. "You know how much more pain the victim experiences versus the quick up-and-out of a gunshot."

The Joker was beginning to breathe a little heavily, and I tossed Pax a warning glance.

"So what was it, huh?" Daniel continued, his pacing leading him closer to the Joker. He seemed very pleased by his progress. I wouldn't have called it progress; I'd have called it mental torture. "Did you go to a hospital, or did you have to stitch them up yourself?"

Before my mind even registered the motion, Joker had leaped up and taken Daniel down to the ground. He was mindlessly beating at him in the chest, stomach, face; anything he could get to. Taken off-guard slightly, Daniel tried to free himself, but couldn't.

I knew this would happen. I jumped out of my chair and threw my arms around the Joker, trying to pull him off. At first glance, he was kind of a wiry fellow, the kind you'd expect to have had their lunch money taken as a kid. But he proved to be much more at that moment. It was like trying to reverse the momentum of a freightliner; it was pointless. I tried harder, which only won me a shove across the room.

The two guards from outside the cell barged in, and raced to Daniel's aid. They gabbed the Joker by both upper arms, and slammed him back against the wall, where he writhed, laughing as he did.

Daniel stood, shaken but okay. He straightened his now somewhat loosened tie, and looked at the Joker. He was struggling with the guards, kicking at them and laughing. I tried to protest as one of them took out a syringe, but it fell on deaf ears. They gave him the entire dose, and he slowly stopped fighting, and they dropped him gently to the floor, where he lay, panting.

"We're done here," I told Daniel, and turned to walk out, fuming. I'm not sure if he caught my drift. I meant 'we're done with this technique. For good.' He probably thought we were just done for the day, which was quite obvious.

I was mad. No, not mad. Furious. Daniel had seen that the topic was upsetting the Joker, and kept pushing it. You never do that with these types of people.

"Harleen!" Daniel yelled after me as I stormed out to my car in the parking lot. I didn't turn, didn't even acknowledge that I had heard him.

"Harleen!" he yelled again, and I could tell he was approaching me.

I spun around to face him, pretty sure every ounce of rage was showing on my face. "It's Dr. Quinzel, to you, Pax. But you wont have to worry about it for long, because we're done." I turned my back to keep stomping toward my car.

"Hey," Daniel said, gently grabbing my arm to stop me. I yanked away from him. "We were getting somewhere," he said, panting from chasing me.

"Yeah, somewhere dangerous. Didn't you ever watch the news? Do you realize what a violent person he is anyway?" I paused, rubbing my temples. "Jesus, Pax, do you realize what he could have done to you?"

Actually, that wasn't my frustration at all. It should have been. But it wasn't. I was worried about the Joker. I didn't want anything happening to him, mental or physical. I didn't know when or how it happened, but I cared about him. And it scared me. But what scared me more was the thought of not having my weekly Joker-high.

"Aw, come on Harleen," Daniel started to say, rolling his eyes as if I was being dramatic. And I was. For good reason.

"DR! Quinzel. And don't even start. Your check will be in the mail tomorrow. Don't come back," I said, turning to my car, and getting in.

"Hey!" Daniel said, probably about to try to convince me out of my decision. Fat chance. I threw my Sedan into reverse, avoiding Pax as I did so, and gunned it out of the lot so fast the rubber squealed against the pavement and threw up rocks in Daniel's direction.


	5. His Eyes

When I'm angry, I go to the gym. Physical labor always makes me feel better. I have no idea why. But it does. So, naturally, I spent a good three hours there after my disaster session with Daniel Pax and the Joker.

My blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, I ran at least two miles on the indoor track, then headed to the gymnastics area. I've always been good at it. When I was little, I was an elite gymnast, the girl who had every blue ribbon plastered to her wall, quickly followed by champion's trophies. But, like most mothers, mine pushed me extremely hard to be the best. So, like most kids with overly enthusiastic parents, I got burned out on it. But I held my talent in acrobatics over the years, and I like to return to it every now and then. Just to make sure I still got it.

And what better a time to do so than when I desperately needed a distraction. So, as I walked over to the mats and chalked my hands, I tried very hard not to think of the Joker. It didn't work. I leapt up and grabbed one of the bars, and began spinning wildly. Yep, I still got it. Several people stopped to watch as I disengaged my hold on the upper bar, did a complete 360, and grabbed the lower bar, to then gracefully spin around once and land, on my feet, on the mat below.

Several people raised their eyebrows in astonishment, then went on their way. I sighed, not feeling any better. Daniel knew it was a touchy subject. He saw Joker's reaction to the first few questions and just kept going. I should have protested. I should have stopped him. He's my patient; I control what goes on in that cell. How could I have let it happen? Either one of them could have been seriously hurt. Most likely Daniel. And now, thanks to my ignorance, Joker was sedated heavily, and most likely chained up again. And it was all my fault.

My self-doubt and pity continued through the night, and when I finally got home and took a burning hot shower, it was near midnight. I slipped into my large, queen-sized bed, and sighed. I made promises to myself to never let anything of the sort happen again. But promises to me meant nothing. Someone else needed to hear them too.

The following day wasn't a scheduled session with the Joker, but I had to go in, had to see him. I felt responsible for what happened. I needed to make things right. The guards at the doors hadn't been expecting me, but since they knew me so well, they let me enter with hardly any discussion; a fact that I would subconsciously store in my head for a later date.

When I got into his cell, I was surprised to see that the Joker wasn't restrained. I was sure, after he attacked Pax, that Gordon would send the order for them to resume doing so. Maybe Gordon was more forgiving than I thought he was.

The Joker was as he'd been the other day; sitting against the back wall, head turned toward the ceiling, eyes closed. His hands were clamped in his lap again, but something was different. I couldn't place it though.

Instead of taking my usual place on the chair that I usually dragged in front of him, I dropped my clipboard onto the ground, and went to him. I slammed my back against the wall, and slowly slid down it to rest beside him. Like a friend.

"I'm sorry," I said. It sounded hollow, but I tried to give as much sincerity as possible.

He didn't answer, didn't even look at me.

"J, I am so, so sorry," I said, not realizing my nickname for him.

He giggled once, like a snort, then returned to silence.

I sighed, worried that I had broken all the headway I'd made within the past month. So, I picked up my clipboard and started doodling. After all, this wasn't a scheduled session, so I didn't have to do anything. I drew a clown, like a circus clown; red nose, fro-ish hair, striped tights, and big shoes. It was bad, but that's why I'm a psychiatrist and not an artist.

Finally, after a few minutes of silence, the Joker reached over and took my clipboard and pencil from me, and got to work on my drawing. When he handed it back, I split my sides laughing.

The clown was now holding a shotgun in one hand, and a grenade in the other. He had a smoking cigarette dangling in his lips, a box of ammunition had been sketched into his pocket, and beside his head was scribbled 'HA.'

I don't know how long I laughed, but my cheeks and sides hurt when I finally stopped. He had laughed a little, but nothing like me. It had stopped being about the clown about halfway through, and then it was just my hysteria over the previous session giving me some kind of giggle-fit. I guess it was a good way to relieve stress. No wonder this guy did it so much. He struck me as a guy with a lot to worry about.

A few sessions later, we were back on track. Again, he wasn't telling me important things: the scars, his parents, his past in general, but he was at least talking to me again. I had definitely decided to keep our sessions just between the two of us. No one would understand him like I did. I knew what to talk about, and what to avoid. If you wanted to get punched in the face, talk about the Batman. So, I just stayed away from those types of things.

Everyone else saw a monster; a mass murdering psychopath with a death wish. Somehow, I had been grafted into a different conclusion. I saw a man. Yeah, there were some things wrong with him, but doesn't everyone? Someone did something to him; something terrible, and it permanently scarred him, physically and mentally. And I wanted nothing more than to help him. Break through that shell and see what was going on in his head. Little did I know that the day I broke him would be the day he broke me.


	6. Hush Little Child

Our next few sessions, I brought a stereo with me because music always helps most of my patients, and I thought, hey, what the hell. It couldn't hurt. I played tranquil things, which the Joker found very amusing. I told him not to laugh at me, but he continued doing so for quite some time. After a while, he stopped finding it funny, and just let me do my work. I swear, this guy enjoys pissing me off. Who am I kidding? He's the Joker. He enjoys pissing everybody off. I played various things: Mozart, a piano duet called Ferrante and Teicher, some random symphonies whose name I don't know, etc. Sometimes it even helped me.

Today, I had brought in a mix CD with songs that had been recommended to me by other psychiatrists. I was really just grasping at straws at this point, because nothing was working. I mean, he talked to me, but never about anything I needed to hear. I knew his hobbies: blowing things up, shooting people, etc. Which, as you can imagine, doesn't help me much. So, here I was, in a 45-minute session with him, listening to Mozart. Yeah, weird, huh?

About halfway through, we had reached a silence, which should have been awkward, but it wasn't. We just sat for a moment, while the last ringing notes of a piano ballad died off. I turned my head down to reread some of my previous notes as another song began. It was somewhat out of place with the great composers, but it was one I loved nonetheless. It was an instrumental version of Hush Little Baby, done with pianos, violins, and flutes. I absolutely loved how calming the song was, and that's why I had put it on the CD. But when I looked up, what I saw crushed me.

The Joker had thrown his hands to his ears, trying to block it out. His eyes were shut tight, and his body had gone rigid.

"J?" I asked quietly, trying to figure out what was wrong.

"Turn it off," he said in a deep growl that said 'or else.'

I was confused for a moment, then I slammed my hand down on the stop button, and turned back to him.

He was still clutching at his temples, as if the song were still ringing in his head. I had almost given up on finding that one thing that would break him, but now that I had, I wished to god I hadn't. My heart ached for him, and all I wanted to do was take it back.

"Get out," he said, quietly but firmly.

"J, I…" I started to protest.

"I said GET OUT!" he practically screamed, and I gathered my things as fast as I could and left him, silent and alone on the floor of his padded cell.

I don't remember speeding home, don't remember the ticket I had gotten, barely remember slamming through the doors of my house in a panic. I hated what I had done. I couldn't eat, couldn't think. The way he'd reacted to that song, oh god, it broke my heart. Whoever did this to him, made him the way he is, they deserved to be punished. But I didn't know them, or where to find them, so I finally settled on what could be done.

For the entire night and following day, I went to work on what would be the end and beginning of my life. If I really was going to go through with this, I needed to become something else. Let's face it, a bespectacled blonde psychiatrist is not very threatening. But what to do? I thought and thought until it finally hit me. It was something I'd been all along; something inside of me. Something kids used to taunt me with when I was younger. Something the Joker himself had noticed and coined to me. Harlequin.

I drove out to a party store, and went straight to the rear, where their clearance Halloween costumes were piled high. It took me only a few minutes to rummage through and find what I needed. I left without paying. I'm sure the clerk yelled after me, even called the cops. But by the time they showed up, I was long gone. I was back at my house, doctoring up my new outfit. After it was finished, I ran into a few more roadblocks; Arkham was a high security facility, and a pretty costume wasn't about to take it down.

So I jumped back into my car, speeding into the heart of Gotham. The Narrows is home to the filthiest dirtbags Gotham has to offer; smugglers, drug dealers, prostitutes, and yes, weapons dealers. I found a man who dealt out of the back of a Chevy Suburban, and took out my entire previous paycheck.

"What'll that get me?" I asked, putting a hand on my hip as I slapped the wad of cash into his open palm.

His eyes lit up at the riches, and he smiled, beckoning me to the van.

Once back home, I tackled the next of my big problems. I grabbed a hammer from my garage, and pulled my stereo into my lap. I used the opposite end of the hammer to pry it apart at the middle, and began gutting it. I took out everything I could without damaging the exterior of the boombox; the actual stereos, the tape player, the CD player, everything. I grabbed a handful of the materials I'd bought down in the Narrows, and began shoving them into the radio, one by one. But when I had filled it completely, glued it shut, and still had more weapons; I needed more room.

I ran to my home office and grabbed my briefcase. I usually carried it full of papers on patients. And that's what it was full of at the moment. I overturned it on my desk, leaving the mess of papers all over the desk and floor.

Once back in my living room, where I'd left the radio, I grabbed a kitchen knife and sliced the inner lining out of the briefcase. I ripped it out to reveal thick cardboard lining, and that, too, I removed. I shoved several more things into it, and went and grabbed a needle and thread. It was a patchy job, but it was convincing enough. I had one more thing to do. I grabbed a blank sheet of paper, a pencil, and started writing.

When I'd finished, it looked like burglars had ransacked my house, and I looked like complete hell. It was 11:15 on a Wednesday night, and my session with the Joker was at 11:00am the following morning. Perfect.


	7. Revolvers, Grenades, Chairs

That night I slept deeper than I had in months. I suppose it was a sense of completion. I finally felt like I was doing right by myself, by the Joker. That day I drove to Arkham, going the speed limit f.y.i., made a quick pit stop, and pulled into the parking lot as happy as I'd been in a long time. So when I entered Arkham, I looked just as professional and clean as always, perhaps better. And I had a purpose; a sense of meaning. I strode in with my head held high, my briefcase in one hand, my stereo in the other. I smiled at one of the guards, but paused before entering the security checkpoint. Something else entered my mind. The guard looked confused.

"I just remembered, gotta go talk to Gordon," I said, and he smiled as I walked back toward the front, and into a long hallway of offices.

I noticed Gordon in the office of Stanley Bricker, the owner of Arkham, holding a long conversation with the man. Gordon's office was right next door, door closed, lights off. I strode past Bricker's office, face turned in a direction that wouldn't show it to the two men.

As I looked over my shoulder, I gently pushed Gordon's office door open and entered. I passed the light switch, thinking that turning on the light would catch Gordon and Bricker's attention. Now where was that door I'd seen? I peered around in the darkness until my eyes adjusted and spotted a door behind Gordon's desk. I set my briefcase and stereo on the desk and tried the door. Locked. I should have known my luck wouldn't persist.

I thought for a moment, then spun around to face Gordon's desk. Which drawer had it been? I opened the top right one to reveal some envelopes and postage stamps. Nope, not that one. I opened the top left. Bingo.

Two keys lay on top of a box of genuine Cuban cigars, and one I recognized as the key that had unlocked Joker's chains. I grabbed the other one, and voila, the door behind his desk opened to reveal another dark room. I fished my cell phone from a pocket, pulled it open, and used it's glow to find my way. It didn't take me long to find what I wanted and stuff them sparingly into my long gray slacks and white button up shirt. Hopefully the guards would just think I'd gone to town on a pint of Ben 'N' Jerry's.

I closed up the room, placed the key back into it's respective drawer, straightened my shirt, grabbed my belongings, and high-tailed it to the cell hall. The guard at the security checkpoint was surprisingly chipper and talkative, which worked in my favor. He was half-heartedly searching my briefcase, so he didn't notice the stitching at the bottom of all the papers. He ran the metal-detector over me, and told me I was clear. He never bothered to run it over my stereo, because it obviously had metal parts. I smiled at this, knowing that he'd have a heart attack if he knew exactly how much metal was in it right now.

The inmates in the cells surrounding the Joker's had stopped yelling at me after I'd been coming for about two weeks. I suppose they were content with me. It made me laugh on the inside. The two big guards let me into the first door, like always, and I entered Joker's cell using my ID card, as always.

He was lying on the ground on the far end of the cell, one arm draped lazily over his eyes. I smiled wide, a genuine smile of happiness, knowing what we were about to do. He lazily peered over at me, but sat up when he saw the smile on my face. He knew something was up. It was like an animal recognizing one of their own. It made my insides flutter. He squinted at me, apparently trying to figure out exactly what I had up my sleeve. A Joker card, as it were; more literally than you'd think. I began pulling his purple trench coat, blue patterned shirt, green vest, and pants from my shirt and pants and lying them on the floor. A smile graced his face, the likes of which I'd never seen. It was truly wicked, and I loved it. But once I'd removed his clothing that I'd retrieved from Gordon's office, I didn't stop. I began unbuttoning my white shirt to reveal a full-blown Harlequin costume. I removed my pants and grinned as he examined my black and red outfit. I'd sewn it up the day before to make it fit me perfectly. And boy, did it. He said nothing about anything. It was as if he expected such actions from me....

He stepped forward to grab his clothing, and I turned my back to let him change into them from the typical Arkham white. I'm not going to lie; I peeked. But, to keep myself from doing it more, I opened my briefcase and tossed all the papers out. Using sheer strength, I ripped off the lining that I'd sewn back on. It revealed a headpiece, mask, and two revolvers. I put the headpiece on, which was split down the middle by the colors. It had two extended earpieces, which dangled in a clown-like fashion. I grabbed the eye mask, removed my glasses, put it over my eyes, and turned to the Joker, who was pulling on his trench coat.

"Hey sweetie. Say hello to the new and improved Harley Quinn!" I said, holding my arms out in a showy fashion

The Joker smiled, then laughed maliciously. "I like it!" he hissed in a deep tone, one that sent shivers down my spine.

I turned to the camera in the corner, flipped it off as I stuck out my tongue, and ripped the wiring from the back of it. Within seconds, I could hear alarms buzzing outside in the cell hall, and men yelling. I grabbed the stereo off the floor, raised it high above my head, and slammed it to the ground. It shattered to reveal grenades, two more revolvers, two boxes of ammunition, smoke bombs, you name it. When he saw this, the Joker laughed his evil laugh and looked at me, completely impressed. I smiled back.

I tossed him one revolver, which he tucked in the back of his pants, then the other, which he held. I tossed him some of the grenades, and a share of pretty much everything I had, which he hid in various places on his body. I did the same thing he'd done with the guns, then clipped several grenades and smoke bombs to my black and red belt.

I stood, faced the door, and sighed.

"You ready for this?" I asked, knowing we had one hell of a fight ahead of us.

He approached me from behind, and pressed his body against mine. I stiffened, wondering what he was doing. He snaked his arms around my stomach, and pulled me closer to him, resting his chin on my shoulder. I guess previously sane women having a violent nervous breakdown was a turn on to him.

His lips were right next my ear as he whispered, "Are you?"

The way he said it made me shiver, in that dirty way. I secretly wished we had more time. But then I remembered that if we pulled this off, I'd have all the time in the world to do whatever I wanted with him. The thought made me smile.

I gently pushed him away, and slid my card through the reader on the door. It hissed open. They hadn't had time to disable the mechanism yet. But they had shut and bolted the next door, which I was sure was flanked by those two enormous guards. I turned to the pile of weapons we hadn't had room for, and grabbed two round plastic things which resembled eight-balls. I tore them open to reveal one sticky bomb in each, and I slapped one on each of the hinges of the bolted door. I stood back and plugged my ears, Joker standing next to me, smiling wickedly as always.

The blast shook the foundation and blew the door off its hinges. It leaned against the doorframe, shrouded in smoke. I could make out the silhouettes of two guards coughing in the smoke. Without hesitating, I channeled that gymnast inside me. I leaped up, and grabbed the top of the doorframe. I swung out, feet hitting both guards straight in the face and forcing them to topple backwards onto the ground. I landed nimbly on my feet in a crouch and looked around.

The two guards from the front of the cell hall were rushing toward us, and more were flooding in from the door. I peeked over my shoulder and the sight gave me chills. The Joker emerged from the smoke, standing atop the blasted door, took a deep breath, and straightened his coat. He raised his gun, kissed it, and fired straight into the face of one of the guards I had kicked. The inmates began screaming and jeering, banging their fists against their glass cell fronts.

I was distracted from watching as I heard the thundering footsteps of more approaching guards. I turned back to see the security guard running toward me. I smiled.

"Bring it on, baby!" I yelled, fired a few rounds at him; which missed, and somersaulted to the right as he fired a stun gun at me. The charges whizzed past my ankles, and I crouched low like an animal. "Oh come on, that's a toy. Where's your gun?"

He ran at me again, and I noticed a man coming at me from behind. I back flipped onto his shoulders, wrapped my legs under his armpits, and threw my weight forward. This caused him to topple forward, so I ducked my head and flipped him over, so he followed me and slammed onto the concrete on his back in front of the security guard. The man coughed, having the wind knocked out of him on impact. The security guard fired the stun gun again, and this time I wasn't so lucky. It hit me in the collarbone, and I screamed as 50,000 volts of electricity coursed through my body. I fell to the ground, my body spasming.

I blacked out for a moment from the pain, and when I awoke, I found that the tables had turned in my…our favor. The security guard was on the ground clutching a gunshot wound in the stomach. One other guard was standing with his gun pointing at the Joker, who stood pointing his gun right back. As I looked around, I saw the carnage Joker had wreaked when I blacked out.

At least six guards lay dead on the ground, bullet holes riddling their bodies. Three of the cell fronts of the other inmates had been blown open, supposedly by grenades, and their inhabitants were gone. I looked back at the showdown in front of me. I suppressed the urge to whistle the theme from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. I looked around for my gun; I guess I dropped it when I was tazed, so I grabbed the other one out of the back of my belt. I loosed a round at the guard, and he went down yelping, grabbing at the back of his thigh. I rose, slowly, to make sure I was okay. Joker watched me, making sure I was okay as well. The thought made me grin.

Joker grinned, looking like a thought had just struck him. He spun around, his trench coat flowing, and skipped into his former cell. As he did, I approached the guard I had just shot, kicked the gun from his hand, and pointed mine at his forehead.

The Joker returned quickly, dragging with him the metal chair I had used in most of our sessions. I gave him a questioning look. He didn't respond, only dragged it past me and set it down with a bang in the center of the hall.

"Let's play a game," he said.

I looked at him, still puzzled.

"I want someone to let the authorities know what happened here. I want someone to explain to the Batman that even this lovely psychiatrist," he paused, grabbing my wrist and pulling me close to him, "was corruptible. I need someone to explain to them how."

I smiled, staring straight into his eyes. I was willing to be anything for him right now.

"But," he began again, and turned to look me in the eyes. "Harley, how many people does it take to relay a story?"

I grinned, laying a hand on the Joker's chest and playing with the buttons on his shirt. "One."

"Yahtzee!" he said, and pointed his gun at the wounded security guard. "You see, the thing about jokes is, they're only funny with a good punch line."

I smiled, now knowing where he was going with this. But I still didn't know what the chair was for.

"So," he said, still holding me close. "You two," he paused again, gesturing at the two men with his gun, "are going to play musical chairs. I think you can figure out what happens to the loser," he finished, waving his gun around like a toy.

"Oh, you are positively despicable," I said, clapping my hands.

"I know," he said matter-of-factly.

Both men looked at each other, and didn't move.

"Oh come now, it's no fun if you don't participate," the Joker said, and fired a round into the nearest guard's foot.

The guard screamed in agony, and gripped at his foot.

"Feel like playing now?" Joker said, poised to loose another round at him.

The man whimpered, and began crawling around the chair, as did the security guard, still clutching at his bleeding chest wound.

"Harley darling," Joker said, looking at me.

I raised my eyebrows in response.

"Give me a jingle," he said. "Something… upbeat."

I grinned. "Ring around the rosie!"

"Perfect!" Joker grinned, and cocked his gun.

"Ring around the rosie," I started to sing, clapping along to the beat.

The two men circled the chair, faces grimacing.

"Pocket full of posie!" I sang.

The two men started shaking, knowing that one of them would be dead in a moment.

"Ashes, ashes!"

Both of them were weeping now, in fear and agony.

"We all fall DOWN!" I sang, and waited to see what happened.

The big guard yanked the chair toward himself, and slumped over it as the security guard reached, but failed.

Joker smiled wide and stepped around the chair to where the security guard was crawling away from him, sobbing "no."

"Yes," the Joker said simply, and fired straight into the man's left eye.

I flinched away, didn't watch. He had been kind of a nice guy. But my J, that's what mattered to me now. So I sauntered over to him, my heels clicking on the floor. The man on the chair wept loudly out of guilt.

I patted the man on the head, took the Joker by the hand, and we walked together toward the final door.


	8. BOOM

It wasn't difficult to get out of that final door. With no one guarding it, we could just slip out. We walked about halfway into the foyer of Arkham, when Joker stopped, pulling on my hand to make me do the same.

"What?" I said, turning to him. "We need to get outta here before more guards show up."

"I know," he said, turning toward the offices. "I've just had an epiphany."

He walked into the offices, found Gordon's, and entered. It made me wonder where Gordon was. And Bricker, for that matter.

The Joker flipped on the lights, and started rummaging through Gordon's desk drawers.

"What are you looking for?" I said hastily, beckoning him to leave.

"Ah ha!" he declared, and pulled the box of cigars from Gordon's top drawer. He bit off the end, spit it onto Gordon's desk, and retrieved a pack of matches from the bottom of the box. He lit it, and took a long drag.

"Come on, we don't have time for this," I said, bouncing on my heels.

"Ah ah ah," he said, waving a finger at me like a parent would do to a naughty child.

He lit another match, picked up a few of Gordon's papers, and held it under them. They caught quickly, and he threw them onto the desk, where they began to slowly ignite the others. He smiled.

"Now we can go," he said merrily, and took my hand again.

I led him outside to my car, where he graciously opened the door for me, blowing a ring of smoke around my face.

"Thanks, puddin'," I said, using a nickname that I would come to adopt for him in the coming years.

As I drove down the long driveway of Arkham, approaching the bridge at the bottom, I thought about my house. I couldn't go back there, ever. That guard would tell the authorities that it was me, and they would raid it. I thought about the letter I'd written before I'd gone to bed that night before the breakout. My mother would cry when they let her read it:

To my friends and family:

You were right to warn me against this job. I wonder now if you knew something I didn't. I'm glad I got to say goodbye, because the truth is, I won't see you again. Somehow, someway, I've fallen in love with him. He got under my skin, and I let him. But the truth is, I wanted him to. For years, I've been waiting, begging for someone to release me from this mundane, repetitive life. I've spent years listening to other people's problems. But not once did anyone stop to listen to mine. I suppose everyone thought I was a successful businesswoman and I couldn't possibly have any problems. Well I did, and he can fix them. He makes me feel right, like I belong with him. And that's how it's going to stay. Just know that I love you, always have, and always will.

Love, Harleen.

I would never refer to myself as Harleen again. I didn't even recognize her. She must have died that night in her sleep, and only Harley Quinn woke up.

I trashed all those thoughts as I reached the end of the bridge, and pulled over. I got out of the car, and looked back at Arkham. It was smoking now, and bright orange flames could be seen crawling out the windows. The Joker looked at me questioningly.

"I thought you wanted to get out of here?" he said past the cigar as he got out of the car with me.

I walked over to the stone bridge, and crawled around to the lower side of it. He followed and watched me intently.

"Um," I began. "Hey babe, can I have your cigar?"

"Aw, I just lit it," he complained, but handed it to me.

That pit stop I made on my way here this morning. Yeah, I loaded the underside of the bridge with fifty pounds of TNT. And I used the cherry of the cigar to light the fuse.

"You might wanna stand back," I said, and scurried past him.

As we reached about thirty feet back from the bridge, I noticed at least twenty patrol cars coming down the driveway, Gordon's black Cadillac in the lead.

I grinned, counting down on my fingers.

Five, four, three, two…

The blast was so powerful that my hearing went silent for a few seconds. The earth beneath us shook, and bricks sprayed everywhere. The patrol cars across the bridge slammed on their brakes just before they reached it, and the flames could be seen dancing in the reflections of their windshields.

Later on, news reports would declare that bricks were found several miles away, and that the people in the neighborhood below, called Gotham Heights, all heard the blast and smelled the smoke for hours.

The Joker and I stood, admiring the flames for only a little while. We knew Gordon would call for reinforcements, and that their only way in was our only way out. But we admired them nonetheless.

I leaned against the Joker, snaking my arms around him, my right went under his trench coat in the front, my other wound around his back. I held him close and he didn't seem to mind. He laughed as he watched Commissioner Gordon, pacing on the opposite side of the now demolished bridge, cursing at the two of us.

"Toto," he said, stroking my head.

"Yes?" I replied, somehow knowing he was talking to me.

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."


End file.
